


Kechibi

by TerresDeBrume



Series: Digimon OTP Week 2017 [4]
Category: Digimon Adventure, Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02, Digimon Adventure tri.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Digimon OTP Week 2017, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 17:58:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11856717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerresDeBrume/pseuds/TerresDeBrume
Summary: From:YamatoTo:Sora'got 2nd degree burn from a head in a fire ball last night'Or: Yamato didn't really think spirits from his childhood stories were real, but if he had he certainly wouldn't have expected to meet one in the French countryside.





	Kechibi

**Author's Note:**

> There are light references to depression, references to self harm (when Yamato's grandad patches him up) and a short non-graphic description of the burns mentioned in the summary. Other than that, this is pretty safe to read I think, but do let me know if you feel it needs additional trigger warnings :)

 

 

Yamato swears so hard, once he finally figures out what the problem with his bike is, that a rabbit jumps right out of its hiding spot and into the grazing field on the other side of the road. It can’t really be blamed for it: it’s midnight on a chilly, damp August night, and the poor creature probably thought it was safe from stupid humans who don’t have anything better to do than break down in the middle of the night.

Clearly, it never anticipated Michel Takashi’s ancient relic of a motorbike, or the absolute absence of patience Yamato suffers from at the moment.

 

He swears for an unreasonably long time, mixing the few Russian curse words he remembers from high school with the full extent of his French vocabulary, until realizes he’s up for at least two hours’ walk, pushing a bike uphill and, most likely, in the rain. Honestly, at times like these, he almost wonders what’s the point of having enough strength to leave the house if he’s going to end up in these situations.

He knows the answer, of course, and wouldn’t trade the propensity to spiral down into irrational anger or despair for the gaping nothing that were the past few months, but that doesn’t make his present situation any more enjoyable.

 

At least he didn’t break down on a dirt trail.

 

He’s been at it for about half an hour, earphones blasting a long string of insults vaguely put to music at an unreasonable volume, when he notices a flame in the wheat field to his right. The weather as been awful since he got to France, so it’s unlikely to set the crop on fire, but where there’s a fire there’s a person and, in this case, they’re probably trampling around in the wheat.

Yamato, who needs something to throw his annoyance at, decides to be a proper farmer’s grandson and go kick an idiot’s ass.

 

“Oi!” he starts, not interested in how odd that’ll sound to French ears, “you gotta turn your thing off! You’re gonna damage the crops!”

 

He has to walk along the field for a bit before he finds the entry path and follows the tire tracks from the tractors into the wheat, stomping more than he walks. Not that it seems to bother whoever decided to get a hot snack in the middle of the night, though, because there’s no movement or sound of any kind, not even when Yamato growls and calls out again:

 

“Hé! Piss off before you do anymore damage, dumbass!”

 

Still nothing. The wind picks up a little and the flame shivers, but as for the rest Yamato might as well be pissing in a violin—either the bastard is entirely deaf, or they’re ignoring him on purpose. Given the general conditions of deaf people in the country, Yamato’s inclined to believe it’s the later, and bright hot anger clenches his fingers into fists right before he decides to use his grandfather’s tried and true technique: just yell at them in Japanese.

True, the reason it works for Michel Takashi probably is that he’s a super-white octogenarian with the general silhouette of a particularly ill-combed leek, but if Yamato hasn’t let his obvious Japaneseness hold him back before he really doesn’t see why he’d start now.

 

(Ironically enough, there is also something viciously satisfying at making himself so other in his country, his culture and origins spontaneously and universally recognized and accepted in a way they rarely are at home. Who knew racist ignorance could do good things for his brain.)

 

“Sir!” He shouts, using the lower tones of Japanese to make his voice sound scarier, “could you please put your fire out and leave the field? You’re damaging the crops!”

 

The flame grows several centimeters after that, fizzles out, and reappears right in front of Yamato’s knees with a relieved:

 

“You speak Japanese! Can you help me? I’m lost!”

 

Yamato blinks.

 

Pinches his arm.

 

Does it again, but harder this time, digging his nails into the flesh for good measure.

 

Everything hurts the way it’s supposed to, so he’s probably not sleeping but, despite that, the flame is still here.

 

Clearly, he’s gonna need to check out his meds’ notice when he gets home.

 

“Can you help me?” The flame repeats.

 

It’s got a pleasant voice. Lighter than Yamato’s, maybe a bit too loud, but relatively pleasant.

 

It would, of course, be even better if it didn’t come from a fire that gives the inexplicable impression of being a head with far, far too much hair on top of it in the middle of asking a question. For a moment—a couple of seconds, at most—Yamato tries to make sense of it all.

Then he decides he doesn’t have the strength for this mess and walks away, refusing to let himself slow down even when the fire’s voice gets louder.

 

“Please,” it yells, far closer than Yamato would have thought, “I’m lost!”

 

 _Don’t talk to it,_ Yamato tells himself, that’s how people get themselves interned. _Just ignore it and it’ll have to stop, eventually._

 

Right. Because this is exactly how hallucinations work.

 

“I’m lost! Please! I’m lost!”

“Buy a map!” Yamato tosses over his shoulder, heart in his throat as he reaches the exit path.

 

He’s giving himself a rather severe mental talk down by the time he reaches the motorbike and starts pushing on the handles. He’s finally lost it, there’s no way around that, but that doesn’t mean he’s got to go and make it obvious, for heaven’s sake!

 

“Please! I’m lost, help me _please_!”

 

Yamato screams and lets the bike stumble into the irrigation ditch when the flame touches his calf, searing pain shooting up his leg and sending his heart in overdrive. He whines in pain as he slaps the fire out, a litany of apologies floating in his ears even when he forces himself to his feet and takes off at a run toward his grandfather’s home.

 

***

  


He doesn’t remember getting home, let alone in bed, but he must have managed it somehow because, when the pain finally gets too much to bear, his eyes immediately land on the old dance trophy that resides on the bedside table of his mother’s childhood bedroom. He hisses and grits his teeth against the pain to sit up...and yells when the movement causes the sheets to brush on exposed muscles.

He’s still swearing by the time he gathers the courage to check, heart racing like it’s going for a gold medal in the fear Olympics.

There’s almost no skin left on the back of his right leg, raw flesh exposed to the morning air like a painfully undercooked steak. There are blisters all over it, one of them almost the size of an egg, and jeans fibers stick to the wound in a couple of places. It could probably be worse, but it’s bad enough to make him dizzy and vaguely nauseous.

  


He has to grip the edge of the bed with white knuckles before he tries to stand, and when he tries to put a foot in front of the other the pain, sharp and raw like nothing else, catches him fast and hard enough that he yelps and falls to the ground, wincing when the door open to reveal his grandfather standing there with his night gown and a panicked expression on.

  


“What did you do?” He yells in French when his gaze lands on Yamato’s calf.

“I didn’t do anything, it’s—”

  


A pained exclamation cuts through Yamato’s sentence when his grandfather plucks the jean fibers out of the burns, and it’s all he can do to get his breath back while Papy Michel chastises him:

  


“You couldn’t just do that with a knife, could you? You could have set the house on fire!”

“But that wasn’t me!”

  


He knows he’s lost before his grandfather speaks again. It shows in the way his features go from worried granddad to steely war veteran and, even if that wasn’t enough of a tell, the fact that he reverts to Japanese for the next sentence is a dead giveaway.

  


“Can you get to the bathroom?”

“Yes,” Yamato confirms with burning eyes, “I’ll manage.”

  


It’s easier to brace himself for the pain now that he knows what it’ll be like. With a wince, he bites on the pained sound that tries to get out of his throat and pushes himself upright, grabbing his phone on his way up. If his grandfather won’t listen to what he’s got to say, he might as well reach out for people who will.

  


‘ _got 2_ _nd_ _degree burns from a head in a fire ball last night’_ he texts to Sora, before transferring the message over to Takeru.

  


It’s a little over seven PM back in Tokyo, so he’s not surprised when Sora answers first:

  


‘ _Did your dosage change recently?’_

‘ _np & nothing causes hallucinations, I checked + I was in a wet wheat field. Nothing to burn me w even if I was seeing things’_

‘ _Yikes. How did your granddad take it?’_

‘ _badly’_

‘ _YIKES. Hang in there & phone me when you can. My new pill keeps me up anyway.’_

  


Yamato promises Sora to call her as soon as he’s done getting bandaged—possibly with lunch, too—and does his best not to be too obvious about how much he wants this thing to be over already.

  


“You know,” his grandfather tries after a while, eyes straying toward Yamato’s phone almost too quick to be noticed, “if you want to talk about this, I can—”

“Sora says hi,” Yamato says, heart in his throat, before the sentence can end.

“What?”

“Sora. My friend from the hospital. She says hi.”

  


She never had even the beginning of a will to get in touch with Yamato’s family, a sentiment he approves of and mirrors entirely, but mentioning her is a surefire way to cut any conversation short without having to provide an excuse. It’s not that Yamato’s family isn’t trying to support him. They are.

It’s just that they don’t exactly understand one another at the best of time, and neither his parents nor the two grandparents he still has were prepared to deal with the kind of issues Yamato turned out to have. His friendship with Sora, born and forged in the heart of a psychiatric ward, is quite possibly too much of a reminder for them to be fully comfortable with it.

  


“Good,” Papy Michel mutters with a bit of a strangled voice, “that’s good. Well, you’re all patched up now. Don’t get this dirty.”

  


Yamato nods and gives a perfunctory mutter about wanting a smoke before he makes his exit to the garden, where he promptly lights a cigarette. He can’t honestly say he needed it _right this second_ , but since he’s here he might as well indulge and settle his nerves.

Besides, it’ll give him some space to answer Takeru’s incoming text.

  


‘ _Dsnt that sound lk 1 of grdma Fumikos stories?’_

‘ _wut?’_

‘ _the head ina fire thing. Its a Kõchi story no?’_

‘ _maybe idk’_

‘ _ill check’_

  


Takeru doesn’t really need to check, seeing as his comment actually reminded Yamato of the legend in question, but waiting for more information gives hims something to do while he finishes his cigarette, and it’s as good an excuse as any to stay away from his grandfather for a bit.

  


The thing he met—the thing he  _ thought _ he met—was probably a kechibi: some poor sod’s spirit literally rolled right out of them and into a fireball, for whatever reason. It can’t be real, of course, and Yamato feels stupid for entertaining the notion now, but he used to be a hardcore believer when he was younger. Not, as his grandmother first thought, because he was afraid of them, but because she used to say some kechibi were wrathful spirits, meant to exact vengeance on those who wronged them during the day.

The amount of time Yamato spent nursing his resentments, during middle school, hoping he’d generate a kechibi powerful enough to take care of his worse bullies, was probably not very healthy. He can’t say he regrets it, though of course he’s given up on their existence a long time ago now. After all, he may go to a temple on a semi-regular basis, half-because he wishes he’d believe again and half because the atmosphere soothes him, but that doesn’t mean he can’t realize that legends are just that. Legends.

  


‘ _how do u explain the burns then?’_ Takeru asks when Yamato points that out.

‘ _dunno. Y do u even want it 2 b real?’_

‘ _either it’s real or u burned urself & fabricated the encounter 2 cover it up. Whether were talking hallucinations or lies I prefer the 1st option’_

‘ _...ngl, so do i’_

  


It’s getting late by now, the butt of Yamato’s cigarette long discarded in the ashtray he keeps on the low wall protecting the vegetable garden, so he wishes his brother goodnight and finally goes back inside for lunch. He answers his grandfather’s questions—in Japanese, for the most part—without lying, though he’s careful not to mention the kechibi, and they spend the next few hours figuring out how to get the motorbike out of its ditch and into a garage shop.

  


The words ‘please, I’m lost’ float in Yamato’s mind the whole way through.

  


***

  


‘ _You’re a nutcase,’ Sora texts when Yamato finishes telling her about his projects for the night._

‘ _tell me somthng I don’t know’_

‘ _No, the depression is regular crazy. This is just nuts.’_

‘ _im going now ttyl’_

  


Yamato can almost ear Sora’s disbelieving little snort as he sneaks out of the house and climbs on the mountain b ike his grandfather borrowed from a neighbor on his behalf. She doesn’t let it out as often as he does, but sometimes she’s got enough sarcasm to give him a run for his money and, honestly, the only reason he doesn’t keep texting her is because he has no intention to die on the road tonight.

Still it’d be nice if he could. He’d feel a little less stupid, for one. How else could he feel when he’s on his way to a freaking field in the middle of nowhere just so he can maybe have a—second—conversation with a head in a fireball.

Ridiculous doesn’t even  begin to cover it.

  


The ride goes peacefully. There ’s next to no traffic on the roads as it is, let alone at eleven at night, and the weather finally cleared so aside from the darkness it isn’t that different from Yamato’s usual exploration of the countryside. There’s a sense of trepidation in him his usual outings lack, though.

The countryside in this part of France is dreadfully empty—not even five hundred persons in his grandfather’s village—and it doesn’t even have the decency to make up for it with particularly beautiful landscapes. Yamato had been spending most of his days out so far, but it’s a way to be alone with his thought and away from his grandfather’s worried incomprehension more than a show of appreciation for the place,  r eally.

Add a healthy dose of depression to that and, well. That’s all you need to know about Yamato’s current hobbies, really.

  


There’s a real purpose to this particular trip, though, if only to figure out whether that thing really is real—it can’t be. Legends aren’t real! But then Yamato’s burn, still throbbing under the bandage and disinfectant, is, so there’s that. He pulls into the entry path to the field with a sigh and one last volley of disbelieving insults to his own intellect, and rests the mountain bike down on its handle before stepping onto the tire tracks.

The full moon’s getting near which, if legends are to be believed, make the possibility of a spirit encounter even more likely. Of course, that’d feel a little more logical if he weren’t thousands of miles away from Japan in a field that is painfully, obviously empty—of people  _and_ of flame.

  


Yamato is running a hand over his face with a weary sigh when there’s a firecracker sound, and he jumps about thirty centimeters into the air, shrieking as he lands on his ass and damages a sizable patch of wheat, as well as the butts of his hands, in the process.

  


“Shit, warn a guy would you?”

  


The face in the fireball doesn’t have very definite features, except maybe for the ridiculous excess of hair, but it still manages to convey a decent air of contrite confusion as it settles down at some distance from Yamato’s legs. Good. Not only does that mean he won’t get burned again just yet, it should also spare him the mental image of a head bouncing after him like a rubber ball which, as his irreverent conversation with Sora this afternoon attests, is nothing short of ridiculous.

Still, the head looks like it sort of feels bad, so Yamato sighs, shifts his mental processes over to Japanese, and says in as calm a voice as he can manage:

  


“Excuse me, oh Spirit, but what are you doing here?”

  


The flames around the head brighten, and the vague hint of eyebrows raise up as the head exclaims:

  


“You speak Japanese! Can you help me? I’m lost!”

“So I understand,” Yamato says, a not-so-small part of his brain still yelling at him to go home and get a grip.

  


The rest of him figures it can’t be worse than staring at the ceiling and hope for something to come and jump start his emotions back to life.

  


“Who are you?”

  


There’s a pause, like the head is gathering breath, and then:

  


“I’m lost, sir.”

“Yes. You mentioned that. Where are you from?”

  


There’s another, longer pause, and the flames around the kechibi’s head dim a little before it—he?—tries in a hesitant voice:

  


“I’m lost.”

“Alright,” Yamato sighs, distantly relieved this thing is managing to irritate him, “let’s try something different. Do you have a name?”

“I have a friend!” the kechibi answers, voice piping so high it sounds more child-like than the adult voice it had before.

  


It’s not the answer Yamato was aiming for, but it’s a step out of the ‘I’m lost’ loop, so he’ll take it.

  


“What’s you friend’s name?”

“Koushiro.”

  


There’s happiness in that one name, like saying it is enough to put the kechibi in a good mood, and a trickle of dread worms its way inside Yamato’s heart. He really hopes he’s wrong about where this is going.

Maybe this Koushiro person is just a close friend.

  


“Do you know where Koushiro is?”

  


Pause. Dimming flames.

  


“...I’m lost.”

  


Evidently, not the right question to ask. This is going to be tricker than he thought it would be.

At least, he reminds himself, it’s not a wrathful one. He hasn’t believed in literal spirits in a long time—tending to interpret them as energies of some sort more than anything else—but he did grow up with a healthy respect for them. That, and a certain awareness of their potential for harmful behavior, because respecting spirits doesn’t mean pretending they’re only ever nice and fluffy.

Hell, even his mother, who is a practicing Catholic, always told him not to anger any spirit, that’s how well aware of their nature he is.

  


This one though? More confused than angry. It’s honestly the only thing that keeps him from turning heels and leaving it to its own devices. Instead, he follows his earlier inkling, and asks:

  


“What’s Koushiro like?”

  


Look, Yamato isn’t usually the type to compare real life to movies but, one, he’s literally talking to a spirit so the usual rules can suck it and, two, there’s really no other way to describe the way the kechibi glows other than Ghibli-like. It’s like watching a flaming, wild-haired version of Ponyo puff itself up and yell:

  


“Awesome!”

  


It’s a good thing it looks so cute, because it means Yamato doesn’t have to fake his little smile when he replies:

  


“That great, uh?”

“Yes! He’s smart, and he’s funny and he knows how to do so many things with computers! And he’s nice and sometimes he forgets to it so I bring him food and then he smiles and we laugh a lot. He’s a really good friend.”

  


It’s funny the kechibi’s voice should sound like a child’s. Yamato can’t know for sure tit’s not its real voice—although the head seems large for a kid’s, and it  _did_ start out speaking in deeper tones—but even then there’s something so...innocent about the way it sounds. There’s no fear, no embarrassment, no self-disgust here, just pure affection and a fondness that can never be faked.

He sort of wishes he’d get to have that.

  


“He does sound pretty amazing,” he says, trying to keep the wistfulness out of his voice. “How long have you known him?”

“Oh, forever, I’m sure,” the kechibi replies, head tilting back like it’s looking for an answer in the stars, “I don’t remember not knowing him.”

“That’s quite a long time.”

“Yes, but it’s nice! Don’t you have someone you’ve known forever?”

“Not really,” Yamato shrugs, “my oldest friend is my little brother, but I remember what it was like when he wasn’t there.”

  


Dimly, in short flashes that mostly consists of the few weeks before Takeru’s birth, but Yamato still remembers.

  


“Do you like your brother a lot?”

  


Yamato blinks at the change of topic, in part because he was starting to get lost in his own thoughts, but also because he’d kind of given up on the kechibi extending their conversation topics on its own. Evidently, he just hadn’t found the right angle.

  


“Yes,” he says, settling into a more comfortable position, “I do.”

“How much?”

  


Oh well. If he’s gonna hear a kid’s words in a kid’s voice, he might as well go the whole way.

He extends his arms as far as they’ll go before he says:

  


“That much.”

  


He really hopes this kechibi didn’t come from an actual child, though. If he’s right, and there’s less an less hold on the hope that he isn’t, then he really hopes it’s happening to someone who’s old enough to mostly bounce back from it.

  


“I,” the kechibi says, the flames at the side of its head widening like they’re trying to imitate Yamato’s gesture, “like Koushiro thiiiiiiiiiiis much!”

  


The fire licks at a couple of strands of wheat on the side, and Yamato is halfway to his feet before he realizes nothing caught fire. In fact, aside from the damage he inflicted, it’s like nothing’s happened here at all.

Well, good to know major burns are a human-only experience, he guesses. Could have done without the discovery, though.

  


“Oh, sorry,” the kechibi says, dimming and shrinking as it talks, “sorry, sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Yamato reassures it, one hand straying to his calf, as if he could have forgotten the wound there, “it’s not so bad, and you didn’t—”

“Koushiro is a boy,” the kechibi shrieks.

  


Fuck, Yamato thinks.

  


He was right.

  


The spirit vanis hes with a loud snap before he can fully figure out what to tell it.

  


Yamato waits for the kechibi to return for a long, long while, even going so far as to call out once or twice, but to no avail. The spirit, it seems, is either back to its body, or determined not to come back. Yamato could wait it out until morning if he wanted, he’s definitely got the hang of not moving of uncomfortable length of time. That would probably result in his grandfather having a stroke in worry, though, and he’s not so far down that it’s something he’ll let happen anymore.

Besides, even supposing he stays here all night and his grandfather either doesn’t notice or survives the experience unharmed, anyone who lives within in a twenty kilometers’ radius would soon know about how Michel Takashi’s grandson slept in a field. He’s already the local weirdo, there’s no need to add to that.

  


He calls out for the kechibi one last time, then looks around to make really sure no one hears him when he promises to come back the following night.

  


By the time he gets back to his bed, he’s tired enough that even his brain can’t keep him awake.

  


***

The kechibi is already there by the time Yamato makes it to its field on the third night and he thinks, a little stupidly, that he might have to find it a name at some point. It’s ridiculous, really, these things are supposed to be people’s souls, not pets. It feels weird not to have a name to give it, though, so it doesn’t hurt to think about it.

It isn’t a priority though, and as soon as Yamato is within speaking distance of the spirit he makes sure to say:

  


“It’s alright that Koushiro is a guy.”

  


The kechibi’s features are a little more defined when he looks up to stare at Yamato. Its hair, still overgrown, is dark brown, a little paler than the stereotypical Japanese black. Its nose is short, its mouth a little too thin but somehow friendly, as if made for smiling. It’s the kind of smile that half begs you to be telling the truth, half asks if you wanna be friends.

If maybe you already are a friend.

Yamato’s Gay Epiphany wasn’t what sent him to the psychiatric ward but damn, he would really have loved it if someone would have put that kind of expression on his face instead of having to figure it out on his own.

  


“It really is.”

“It’s alright,” the kechibi repeats, its flames growing a little taller, a little brighter.

“Yeah.”

“Koushiro’s a guy. And it’s alright.”

“Completely alright.”

  


He’s not sure how a disembodied and mostly featureless head manages to make fondness bloom in the vicinity of his heart but, eh. It’s a spirit. They do weird things, like burn people by accident while leaving crops alone or, in this case, flickering and changing colors at a steady pace.

Flick-orange, flick-redder, flick-range, flick-redder.

  


“That’s funny,” Yamato says after a moment of silence, “your flames.”

“What about them?” the kechibi asks as if having fire all around your head was a normal, every day occurrence.

  


It probably is to a spirit, mind you, but that doesn’t mean Yamato can’t keep in mind how surreal the entire thing is.

  


“The way they change color. It’s like a heartbeat.”

“Heart?”

“Yeah,” Yamato replies, deciding to try and circle back just to see if their conversation changed anything, “it’s what you like people with.”

“I like Koushiro a lot.”

  


The flames don’t widen like enthusiastic little arms this time, but considering there’s no abrupt disappearance either, Yamato decides he’s okay with it.

  


“Yeah. It’s alright to like him a lot.”

  


It sort of feels like Yamato should be trying to have this conversation with a more elaborate vocabulary, mostly because the face in the flames doesn’t really look child-like. Sometimes, though, even adults need to get simple words, and this one hasn’t protested the lack of over-three-syllables lexicon yet.

  


“Jyou doesn’t like Koushiro as much.”

  


Ah, yes. That’s the fun part, as far as Yamato remembers, the moment he went from a relieved, almost elated ‘ _this_ is why it’s not working with girls’ to ‘oh  fuck, now I’m even _more_ different’.

There were other components, too, things being straight wouldn’t have changed like, oh, being blond or being socially awkward, or having lucked out at the brain make up lottery—although that point might have been easier to deal with in a different world. The fact remains that, even though his Big Gay Epiphany was, depression aside, a mostly smooth process, that part was particularly hard to swallow.

Still is, whenever it rears its ugly head, but Yamato learned to suppress his gag reflex by now.

  


God, this metaphor is getting out of control.

  


“Not everyone likes boys this way,” he says instead of trying to examine that strange train of thoughts.

“Boys don’t.”

“Some do. I do. Some girls don’t like boys that way, either. My best friend Sora, she prefers girls. The person she’s in love with is a girl.”

“I like girls a lot too,” the kechibi says, like it’s correcting a mistake, “and I like Koushiro.”

“Well, you’re allowed to like both. You’re allowed to like any kind of person.”

“Mom will be angry.”

“Maybe she won’t,” Yamato counters, because it’s true. Not everyone gets terrible reactions. “Even if she is, there’s nothing she can do against it. No one can stop you from liking people.”

  


Yamato has to hide his eyes behind his arm when he ends his sentence, and even then it’s not fast enough to prevent him from seeing spots for the next ten minutes, at the very least. He really, really hope no one was awake to see that, because he’s got no idea how he’d explain it.

Somehow, he doesn’t think ‘sorry, some poor fucker was having an identity crisis in the countryside’ would appease many people.

  


“I love him so much,” the kechibi says.

  


It’s quiet and wistful, back to the deeper tones of the first night. There’s acceptance in that, and some relief, but there’s grief, too, and Yamato isn’t quite sure whether the guy is grieving the safety of straightness or the possibility of something happening with Koushiro.

Either way, he’s definitely back in a headspace where he’s aware of the potential ramifications of his recent discovery, and Yamato knows exactly how _that_ feels.

  


“Yeah,” he mumbles, “I can tell. Sorry.”

  


This time, when the kechibi pops out of the conversation, Yamato doesn’t bother waiting around before he leaves.

  


***

  


When he reaches the field the next evening, he’s almost afraid to find it empty. Sure, it’d mean no more risk of sounding like a complete nutcase, but then again...well, the spirit  _was_ the first person he had a real conversation with in this country, including his grandfather. He thinks it’s  understandable that he doesn’t want to let go of the connection just yet.

Doesn’t prevent him from swearing blue murder when the kechibi startles him again, though.

  


Yamato ignores the kechibi’s surprised stare as he slaps dirt off his jeans and checks the state of his hands...yep. Fresh scraps. Damn it.

Then, because there’s only so long he can ignore a pair of big, almost pleading brown eyes in a fireball looking up at him, Yamato sighs:

  


“What?”

“Why do you keep speaking in a different language? I don’ understand it.”

“We’re in France. If you wanted to hear Japanese you shoulda had your out of body experience back home. Why don’t you ask Koushiro out if you like him that much?”

“He’s aromantic. He told me last week.”

“Ah. Tough luck.”

  


Brown eyes look down, shadowing a vague hint of pinched lips and, well, yeah. It’s not like there’s anything wrong about the aromantism thing, it’s just inconvenient for the spirit’s love life at the moment.

  


“It’s not a problem,” the kechibi says, looking like it’s shrugging nonexistent shoulders, “I’ll get over it.”

“Of course. Doesn’t mean the first few days of it are fun. Is that why you’re here?”

“What? No. I’m on vacations with my family.”

  


Yamato would be lying if he said he doesn’t smile at that. Sounds like the spirit isn’t so lost anymore.

  


“Anyway,” the kechibi adds with the tone of someone who’s trying really hard to convince themselves, “at least it taught me something about myself. It’s….”

“Kind of painful and coming with a whole lot of unpleasant strings attached?”

  


Okay, Yamato knows he sounds harsh, here, but this is honestly the easiest part of this whole story so far. He’s had plenty of time to think about the sort of unpleasant reactions people could, would, and did have to learning he was gay.

  


“If it makes anything better,” he says as he sits down in the grass of the entry path, “you learn to enjoy the cool parts more than you think about the bad ones. Those are only there because people are ridiculous.”

“No offense, but ‘ridiculous’ coming from you sounds somewhat...nice.”

“Just wait ‘til I can handle more than two languages again,” Yamato replies with a shrug, “I’ll show you how mean I can be.”

  


The kechibi snorts at that, laughter burying itself in the ground next to Yamato’s feet, and the only reason Yamato can think of for that is that the poor guy’s had a pretty stressful week. It’s got to come out somehow.

Besides, it makes him chuckle, too. It’s not actual laughter yet, but it’s been a while since he did that and really mean it, so he figures he might as well enjoy this new step on the path of re-recovery or something.

  


“I’d like to do that, actually,” the spirit says with one last huff of breath. “I really was lost and you...you got me out of it.”

“Well, my twitter handle’s @yamaNO, if you want to get in touch there. I have a rainbow-filled silhouette as a profile pic.”

“Okay!” The kechibi agrees with more enthusiasm than Yamato feels is needed, “I’ll check you out!”

  


A second passes.

  


“I mean, I’ll check IT out. It. Your profile. Soon. Tomorrow. Oh my god this is—I really should go….”

  


He snaps out of existence before Yamato can ask for his name.

  


***

  


Yamato is wasting time around the web the next day, trying really hard to pretend he’s not checking his twitter tab every five seconds, when he gets a new follower notification and a direct message, pretty much in the span of a second:

  


**@tAYYYYYchi:** OMG I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE REAL

**@tAYYYYYchi:** I THOUGHT YOU WERE A DREAM

**@tAYYYYYchi:** YOU’RE TOO WEIRD TO BE REAL

**@yamaNO:** says the guy whose Big Gay Crisis gave him a literal out of body experience

**@tAYYYYYchi:** First of all I told you I’m still into girls so I don’t know what it is but it’s definitely not gay. Second, shut up, dumb face. Third: what are you doing?

**@yamaNO:** wondering if some1 invented time travel so I can go back  & not help u

**@tAYYYYYchi:** LIES AND SLANDER.

**@tAYYYYYchi:** Everyone loves me.

**@tAYYYYYchi:** Clearly, you’re A Big Liar Who Lies.

  


Well, there’s no denying the guy—Taichi, his bio says when Yamato follows him back—is entirely right about that.

  


Yamato really , r eally doesn’t mind.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and reviews make me want to keep writing! <3


End file.
